


The Banes of Devotion

by TheStudyInRed



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BAMF Cassandra, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Cassandra Pentaghast, Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, F/F, F/M, Gay Rights, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Leliana (Dragon Age) Knows All, M/M, POV Cassandra Pentaghast, Past Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Solas is Fen'Harel (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29627787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStudyInRed/pseuds/TheStudyInRed
Summary: Cassandra's admired from afar, kept her distance out of respect. She watched Lavellan grow close with Solas and wished them well. She watched them fall in love and wished them happiness. She watched Solas push the Inquisitor away.And now she wishes she could stop thinking about it.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Female Lavellan/Cassandra Pentaghast, Female Lavellan/Solas, Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Kudos: 13





	1. Vallaslin

Cassandra is on the battlements when the Inquisitor returns, head down, gaze turned to the sunrise, hands tight on the reins of her red hart steed. The Seeker descends at once, taking the stairs down two, sometimes three at a time. Gasps echo up the stone from the entrance. The buzz of the lower levels falls to whispers and then silence as the heavy footfalls of hooves near. She sees why as she reaches the bottom, her feet paused—one on stone and the other on wet grass.

Lavellan’s face is bare. Sunbeams kiss her naked cheekbones, where only hours before, faded gray branches stretched from the corners of her nose up to her temples. Her eyes stay down as she leads the hart right toward the stables. Her hair, usually confined to the crown of her head, sticks to the shaved sides from last night’s rain. The pointed ears, so often hated and inconvenient for the ignorant, droop with something Cassandra only knew from experience. Shame.

The faux warden helps Lavellan from her steed, if only because she’s shivering. She thanks Blackwall, but leaves his side once he has the reins, arms hugged around herself. Cassandra meets his gaze across the green. His hand tightens on the leather. She nods.

She intercepts the Inquisitor before she can make the stairs up to the middle level. “Inquisitor, do you have—”

“No, I don’t, Cassandra,” Lavellan says, too quick, she knows, and stops, eyes shut tight. She reopens them with a sigh, “I’m sorry. Give me a moment and I’ll be right with you.”

Cassandra is first in line when the elf calls upon her inner circle for assignments. She has slaughtered for the Inquisitor, sometimes single-handedly with her shield up and her hand desperately shaking Lavellan awake, smacking enough blood into her head to conjure consciousness. She is the sword behind Lavellan’s gaze. No matter what the matter, the Inquisitor need but ask before Cassandra would secure it to her liking. Ask for anything.

For all her universal skepticism, doubt for even to her own gods, Lavellan never demeaned Cassandra for her ideals, for her piety. She only offered a good-humored debate, a laugh, a stern compliment, and quiet companionship. And in return, Cassandra would give her the chance to air concerns, to alleviate pressure with a good spar, to cure her headaches with listening to someone else for a change. Their friendship was born while chained to different doubts, but they came together on one thing, if nothing else: Thedas must be protected by those who intended to rebuild it after the war was over, not control it.

Which, for Cassandra, sometimes consolidated into one person. Even if Lavellan would never let her say it aloud. “Inquisitor, what happened to Solas?”

The name draws a flush to her face, the color vibrant without obstruction. “Forget him. Forget it all. I’ve had quite enough of—” She sighs through her nose. “Would you join me in my quarters? Please?”

“Of course.”

* * *

“I will offer advice, but I have limited knowledge to give in the ways of men.” Cassandra prefaces as she sits on the too-soft couch face the ornate, gorgeous windows. Blue light steals in as dawn approaches. Within minutes, she’d bet. “Though I must say that I could have archers posted on the battlements for his return. If Varric is told, he may volunteer the first shot.”

She looks askance as Lavellan changes into dry clothes, adding a cloak for warmth. The elf is quiet for a moment as she buttons her fitted shirt, before she whispers, “I don’t want him hurt. I just want to know why. Why remove the vallaslin, kiss me, and then leave? You can look now.”

Cassandra’s nose wrinkles. She attempts to picture it, like she might a scene from Swords and Shields. Thin pale arms around Lavellan, the tall elf bent around her like a willow, his mouth on hers and her kissing him back just as his hands drift, take what is all too readily offered. The Seeker mitigates herself. Lavellan’s never lied to her, but there is no way to know what did and did not occur. It’s a private matter, she wouldn’t be surprised.

She meets the elf’s gaze. Her frown deepens. “He could have had second thoughts, perhaps. Though given how readily he gave the knowledge, that seems unlikely. He thought he was doing you a favor, I suppose.”

“I don’t regret asking him to remove the tattoos.” Lavellan joins her on the couch, her back against the armrest and her bird-like legs pulled to her chest. “He said he distracted me from my duty. I asked you here because you’d know better than anyone if I truly had been distracted.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes. “He said he distracted you? That’s preposterous. You’ve been so devoted. You’ve deployed troops to darkspawn overgrowths, sent food to the hungry, water to the thirsty, brought the pious to sanctuary. I have little in common with mages, but I cannot deny how you’ve changed the world of magi. You are a mage. I am a former Seeker and Right Hand of the Divine. The fact that you and I can reach common ground is through your own skills as a negotiator, which you’ve worked hard to hone since Haven, since the Temple of Sacred Ashes. That…” She trails off, her hands itchy. “When does he return to Skyhold? I would like a word.”

A begrudging smile fights at the corners of Lavellan’s mouth. “Cassandra, there’s no need.”

“He is looking at a more desirable mirror, I think. Looking at you to yearn at what he sorely lacks. His mind is entangled in the Fade. He knows not what is real and tangible anymore. He looks at you as if he distracted you? No,” Cassandra shakes her head and stands. “He is distracted.”

The Inquisitor raises a sleek brow. “You think so?”

The Seeker steps toward the balcony and the elf follows. Even through her gloves, Cassandra’s hands leech the warmth from the railing. Across frozen wasteland, the sun glares pink off the mountain icecaps with pregnant dawn. Lavellan stands beside her, eyes turned up to the sun too.

Cassandra glances at the elf at first, then stares. Before, the tattoos were intricate, places to distract herself when they debated. Now, there’s nowhere to hide. Warm honey skin spattered with freckles around her eyes, a scar along the side of her right eyebrow. Her eyes are greener than the grass Cassandra dreamed of as a girl in a land of crypts.

The elf meets her gaze, brows raised at the Seeker’s intense look.

Cassandra looks away, wild heat bleeds to her face as she uses Lavellan’s first name without thinking, the impropriety of such a slip. “I am sorry, Nivanne. I—oh, forgive me, I did not—”

“Stop,” The Inquisitor lifts a shoulder with a light smile. “Don’t be sorry. I’ve been waiting when you’d just use my name instead of calling me ‘Inquisitor’ all the time. There is no harm up here, as far as I can tell.”

“Of course.” She says, like a reflex.

Her hands fidget at the railing before she suffices to clasp them behind her back. Cassandra knows of dragons, how they may sometimes fly away from a fight to bide time. The logic applies: no harm up in the sky. They can regroup, scream for reinforcements. The Seeker sighs. There’s an old Nevarran expression.

Dragons know exactly where the ground is. And how it feels when they fall, hard.


	2. Nivanne

The courier’s note read: _Library, come quick—Dorian._

Cassandra climbs the steps to the library with what she hopes is a light touch. Moonlight pokes through the cracks in Skyhold’s walls. It’s late, but she did make it clear that should Dorian find anything—even a line—about the rite of Tranquility in his Tevinter texts he requested from the north, he was to find her. Though, as she comes to the landing, her suspicion that his beckoning was academic wanes. 

Dorian crouches next to the railing in his nightclothes—silk robe, soft slippers and trousers. His eyes glint in the low light from the library lanterns. 

“What are you—“ She starts but Dorian tugs her down to his side, a finger over his lips. 

Cassandra follows their gaze through the rails down to the painted stone basin of a room below. Lavellan sits atop the wooden scaffolding, thin legs crossed and her bare face pinched with annoyance. The rift mage braces on his desk, looking anywhere but her. 

A knot forms in Cassandra’s stomach when Lavellan tosses her hair over her shoulder and the light touches her red, puffy eyes. “I don’t expect you to say _anything_. You removed my vallaslin because I asked you to. Asked. Tell me, did I ask you to hawk my commitment to my duty?”

“No,” Solas says, his eyes closed as he sighs through his nose. “I only meant to spare you the pain of what’s to come, what would inevitably happen if we allowed this to continue.”

“Did I ask for your protection?”

Solas huffs and straightens to his full height. His voice pulls taut as a bowstring. “No, but you need protection nonetheless.”

“Corypheus will be handled. I drank from the Well of Sorrows and I have my dragon. I don’t _require your protection._ I only ask for an explanation, Solas. If you cannot provide one, or the more likely answer, won’t provide one, tell me so now so I can stop _wasting my time_ on a man who yanks me in every direction like Mabari over a steak.” 

Dorian shakes his head and meets Cassandra’s concern in equal measure. Although she has been at Lavellan’s side from the beginning, she knows Dorian is perhaps the Inquisitor’s closest confidante despite the rumors that circulate, the fear thicker than fog in the air. It was Dorian she cried to about Solas. Cassandra she approached for advice, but on matters of the heart, of her feelings which she buried behind a thicket of briars, she sought him. To see Lavellan so solid, so firm with Solas when before she would excuse him, it is an affirmation that all those hours with Dorian had resulted in a shift of her unwavering resolve—from every other aspect of her life to, finally, her relationships. 

It heartens her too, to see Nivanne standing her ground. A reliable part of Cassandra perhaps too concerned with propriety urges her not to look, to walk away and apologize later. Yet, she cannot tear herself away. 

“Whom you deserve better than.” Solas says slowly, as if weighing every word. “The entanglement was irresponsible and selfish. I yearned for more than I could give. I ache as much as you do—“

“My clan is dead.” She snaps, and Cassandra’s breath catches in her throat. “They may have been misled, but I loved them. They were family. I wanted to understand you, Solas. Because you were as alone as I was, hungry for the truth. The second I thought I might see your real face, you threw more masks on that I no longer recognized. That it was improper or selfish to have this with me is beside the point. It was beneath you.” 

Solas stares, nose wrinkled. He tucks his chin a little and for a moment, looks to Cassandra like a wolf, indignant at being found out. It flickers and then his face smooths, placid and blank again. “Take heart, Inquisitor. We all wear masks. It was a mistake.” 

“A mistake.” She slips off the scaffolding and lands on the balls of her feet with a smack. When she rises again, her hands itch as she clasps them behind her back. “Thank you for explaining so fully. I couldn’t agree more. I’ll not detain you a moment more. Go back to your duties.” 

Dorian leaves the railing as soon as Lavellan marches from the room, likely aiming to catch up with her, but Cassandra watches Solas a moment longer. He stares at her back, before he shuts his eyes tight and clenches his hands. A brief moment of anger that tells an encrypted story that she cannot translate. He loved her. That is clear. 

She has read many, many books, recognizes this sort of scene immediately. The foolish lover regrets his mistake and repents, goes to the ends of the world to reclaim his love’s affections, but something about Solas’ posture denies that will be the case here. His loss. 

Cassandra stands and turns her back on him. A brief note of relief: life and art have a symbiotic relationship but cannot always replicate each other. 

Dorian has Lavellan corralled into a semi-circle of seats around one of the hearths, heads bent in hushed voices. Cassandra joins them with a scoff. “I would like to apologize for eavesdropping--” 

Lavellan pulls a tight smile as she pats her arm. “Don’t fret. I’m glad others can at least verify that Solas felt something in the first place. That this even happened.” 

The mage tuts his tongue and scoots closer to the Inquisitor. “Nevermind that. Are you all right? I had no idea about your clan. I am...sorry and intimately familiar with the grief that follows the loss of family, literal and figurative.” 

“It was weeks ago.” Lavellan says, though she and Cassandra share a look that beckons the nights they spent walking about Haven under the stars wondering what might have happened if only she’d been there. She purses her lips when she lies. “I am well over it.” 

And Dorian is incredibly perceptive. “Liar, liar. I won’t press, but after that argument, I would recommend a drink. Or five.” 

“What do you need?” Cassandra leans forward and meets Nivanne’s eyes. Her stomach folds over and over as the silence grows pregnant in the hall, nothing but the crackling of the fire to mark time. 

The Inquisitor speaks slow as a glacier, icy as one too. The glow of the fire fails to melt her. “Time we don’t have. Space we can’t afford. For now, I will settle for a good night’s sleep. We march to end Corypheus soon. We will all need to refocus on what’s important.” 

“You must tend to yourself as best you can.” Dorian insists, his hand on her wrist. “I implore it. Let Solas have his loneliness if he craves it so badly. You are better than that. If Cullen decided tomorrow that I’m not worth the trouble, I would not weep nearly as much as I would if I did not have you at my side. As my greatest friend.” 

Lavellan holds his fingers and this time, her smile is genuine, bright, something she never shows to the world she has scared stiff. “ _Enasalin. Ir tel'him_.” 

Dorian’s eyes brighten with recognition. Their impromptu elven lessons, which Cassandra has overheard more than once with interest on their missions together, have paid off. 

_Victory. I am myself again._

* * *

Cassandra walks Nivanne back to her quarters, the miserably short distance it is. Up the stairs they climb side by side, as they have scaled mountains and narrow forest paths before. Their footsteps match. 

Only now it feels like air. She considered them tied to different things for so long--Lavellan to her gods, Cassandra to the Maker, to Andraste. Lavellan to the apostate the Seeker threatened to execute if he couldn’t save her, Cassandra to a Chantry who reviled her and that Lavellan made see the Inquisition’s necessity. Whatever they are, they’re tethered to each other now. Free from anything. Free to look at each other and change. 

“What are you thinking about?” Nivanne turns at the top of the stairs and clasps her hands behind her back. “I can feel when you want to say something.” 

“Do you remember what I told you? That you frighten me?” 

The elf runs a hand through her hair, breaks up the knots. “Quite clearly, yes. It’s hard to forget someone like you being scared of anything.” 

Cassandra gathers herself, clears her throat as a chill steals in from the balcony. Neither of them shiver, though the wind reddens Nivanne’s tattooless cheeks. When the Seeker speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I am no longer frightened _of_ you. I am frightened _for_ you. The way you spoke to Solas…” 

Nivanne looks away, to the moonlight-drenched snow on the mountains around Skyhold. “I don’t want to talk about him. Not tonight, at least.” 

“Of course. I’m sorry.” She says, sterner with herself now. Her brows furrow. “I have overheard the sentiment that even if you perish in your final fight with Corypheus, sacrifice yourself so that he may never reap this world, the Inquisition may yet continue. That you are unnecessary for victory.” 

Nivanne only smiles, eyes still averted. “Whomever said it isn’t wrong. Even if I don’t survive killing Corypheus, someone will become Divine--same say that will be you--and someone will take my place as Inquisitor. Or at the very least, my advisors will carry out my wishes. My friends will make it possible.” 

“What I mean to say to you, what I’ve been meaning to say for a while in fact, is that I hope for you.” Cassandra steps closer, a tightness in her chest beneath the armor. “I hope you survive. I want you to walk away from that fight. Because if I ascend to the Sunburst throne,” A sour taste on her tongue, even as she speaks of it. “I know we can change the world together.” 

“You don’t believe you can do it on your own?” Nivanne meets her gaze, surprised at the notion. 

Cassandra wrinkles her nose. “I could. I simply do not wish to. I would prefer to do it with a friend.” 

The elf shakes her head and straightens out of her slouch. Her staff glints at the edge of the bed. “This is the first I’ve heard you actually _want_ to be Divine. Before, you were doing it because you believed it was your duty. That you know the Chantry must change and if called upon, you’d do it. For the Maker, for your beliefs, for what you know the Chantry has to be for the masses, but…” 

The Seeker squirms, like when her former trainers detected a lapse to bad habits in her form. “But what?” 

“I thought your goal was to rebuild the Seekers of Truth. To research the Rite of Tranquility after you learned it could be reversed, to give knowledge and not withhold it like Lord Seeker Lucius.” She tilts her head. “We both know Leliana wants it, you told me yourself that if she took the Sunburst throne, the Chantry could not have chosen anyone better.” 

Cassandra bows her head. She did say that. 

Nivanne’s voice sinks into a low, comforting tone and her hand comes out to touch her shoulder, so little she has to reach high for it. “I am the Inquisitor. If I can convince the Chantry on your behalf that you are that someone better, I would do it if you asked me to. Because _you_ wanted to do it, because it would lead to your happiness, not because you believed it to be your duty.” 

“I would have to leave the Inquisition, commit to the Chantry.” Cassandra looks down at the elf’s hand, the scars on her fingers, the chip in her first fingernail. 

“You wouldn’t have to leave, per se, just...spend more time away from it.” 

“I would not see you again for some time. It’s little better.” 

Nivanne’s lips form a hard line. “What are you saying? Why does it matter? Cassandra, would it make you happy?” 

Cassandra huffs, resists the urge to shrug off her hand. “Happiness is a luxury denied the Divine, Inquisitor. We find our purpose, not our happiness, through the Maker’s will.” 

_Through the Maker’s will_ , she thinks, _which is where I found you._

“If it would make you happy to have the Sunburst throne,” Nivanne lets her hand fall. “You have but to ask for it and it’s yours. I can make you Divine. I can talk to Leliana. One word to Josephine--” 

A great noise, like a thousand waves on the Storm Coast crashing all at once, rushes in Cassandra’s ears. Her cheeks warm. Her face feels stony beneath the heat, before she turns away. “Nevermind. Forget I said a word about it, please. Do not think of it another second.” 

“Cassandra? Cassandra, wait.” 

The Seeker heads for the stairs. “Goodnight, Inquisitor.” 

Nivanne steps toward the rail, but much as she wants her to, the elf does not jump like she might have before to stop her. Cassandra makes it to the door and despite her best efforts, could not slam it behind her. 


End file.
